


and i'll be yours to keep

by fruitwhirl



Series: peraltiago tumblr prompts [12]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, this is post-wedding as always who do you think i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 09:02:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: While Holt and Terry have retired to their homes and respective partners, the rest of the squad still lingers at the edges of the bar, chatting idly among themselves. But Jake and Amy aren’t even cognizant of their presence, not really—they’re not aware of anyone around them, to that end. He leans down, mouth hovering by her ear, and she giggles something light and airy when he asks, low, if she wants to “get out of here.”And she does, so they do.





	and i'll be yours to keep

**Author's Note:**

> just a rambling drabble that surprisingly does NOT end in pregnancy or talks about kids. wow. what a shocker. title from "only love" by ben howard.

It doesn’t set in that they’re married, of course, until it’s half-past midnight and the bar’s just starting to  _ really  _ fill with patrons, the music growing louder and more upbeat. Between all of the now-tipsy customers and awkward first dates and coworkers reluctantly grabbing a beer, Amy has her left arm slung around his neck loosely while her right thumb grazes his cheek, soft. And  _ his _ hands rest on her hips, stroking the lace detail of her bodice, and they’re dancing, but not really—just barely swaying to the Panama song playing overhead. 

Jake shifts his chin so that he can press a kiss into her palm, then leans into it, can’t help the small smile that has yet to leave his lips. 

Sighing something fair, something faint, she moves her hand, lets it drift to clasp at the other wound about his neck. Rests her forehead against his chest, in the little crook of his neck that she knows so well. “We’re married, huh?”

She can feel his nod, his wide, wide grin, against her hair. Feels his whisper of, “I love you so much,” and she repeats it, breathes it into his shoulder.  _ I love you so much _ is like a heartbeat for them, a reflex, something involuntary that their medulla oblongatas take care of. 

While Holt and Terry have retired to their homes and respective partners, the rest of the squad still lingers at the edges of the bar, chatting idly among themselves. But Jake and Amy aren’t even cognizant of their presence, not really—they’re not aware of anyone around them, to that end. He leans down, mouth hovering by her ear, and she giggles something light and airy when he asks, low, if she wants to “get out of here.”

And she does, so they do.

It’s fingers grasping at lace and the straps of her heels and her clutch and, finally, the door handle of the little black Honda Accord that idles on the side of the street outside of the bar. It’s the brush of lips against her collarbone, against matching silver rings, against temples and foreheads and hairlines. It’s the words that he speaks into her skin when they get to their front door, the words “you know, we never  _ did  _ get to eat that cake.”

And she laughs, because it’s such a  _ Jake  _ thing to say—to think of eating an entirely-frosting cake right before they’re going to have sex—but because it’s so fitting (really, it is), she can’t argue and the last time she ate was right before she got her makeup done, so early afternoon. 

So, they end up in the kitchen, making cupcakes, because that’s what one does on their wedding night.

Honestly, it’s a poor decision.

Due to the fact that Amy’s dress is borrowed and Jake’s tuxedo is rented, they change—her white skirt pools on the carpet while his jacket drapes over the back of the couch, and a slightly-oversized plaid shirt hangs off her frame, him in his plain undershirt and boxers. 

It’s a good thing they’re out of their fancy clothes, because they’re both a little inebriated still and so they end up covered in  _ chocolate cake batter  _ and  _ frosting  _ even though one of their wedding gifts was a  _ stand mixer  _ so there’s no reason at all that two giggling, grown adults should make this much of a fucking mess. Eventually, though, they get find a cake pan and get everything into the oven.

And now, with all of their ingredients and spoons and dirty bowels spread out around their kitchen, Amy should really be focused on cleaning—it’s part of her nature, after all—but he’s got her pressed up against the counter, and it takes barely two beats for him to lift her up where she’s perched on just the very edge of the laminate, her legs wrapped around his waist, loose. She kisses him slowly, her left hand rising to cup his jaw, and he can’t help smiling brightly, widely. 

“What?” she asks, brow furrowed. 

And she’s pulled away slightly, though she’s still holding his cheek so he can feel the cool metal of her ring against his skin. He shakes his head, tilting his chin up to kiss her—soft, brief. “We’re  _ married.” _

Amy laughs, still a little confused. “Yeah, I think we’ve established that.”

“I just—we’re two married people in our  _ thirties  _ and you’ve got cake batter on your forehead,” he takes a moment to swipe at the skin above her eyebrow, covering his thumb with chocolate. “And I love you  _ so much.  _ Like, I love you more than  _ Die Hard. _ ” 

That really shouldn’t be the tipping point for her, because she’s well aware that he cares for her, an actual human being, more than he does for a 1988 action movie—but, to be honest, she’s drunk and in love and takes this as an opportunity to kiss him soundly, biting his bottom lip quick. His fingers go to the buttons of her—well,  _ his _ —shirt, and they actually manage to make it to the bed. 

It’s not until he’s got her on her back and finally got his boxers off when Amy pushes against him, sitting up. And to be completely honest, she looks ridiculous with her hair askew, sticking up in random places, and her neck and chest are littered with nascent red bruises and flour and chocolate. But she’s got this real concerned look in her eyes. “We can  _ not  _ get stains on our comforter, Jake.”

“We can always buy a new comforter.”

She furrows her eyebrows for a brief moment, then shrugs. “You’re right.” Then her hands go back to his hair, pull him back down. 

_ Fuck,  _ he loves her. 

It’s not until much later, when the sweat is cooling on their skin and he’s pressing lazy kisses against her bare shoulder, one of her legs tucked between both of his, that she lifts her head from where it was resting against his collarbone, asks if he smells something burning. 

It takes a total of two seconds for the both of them to realize that they never set a timer for the cake, or if they did, they didn’t hear it— _ for reasons _ —and so Amy tugs on his shirt and he grabs his underwear because the only thing more embarrassing than setting the apartment on fire is setting the apartment on fire while also completely naked. 

They have to preserve  _ some  _ dignity, after all. 

(In the end, the cake is unsalvageable, so they pull on actual clothes and stumble their way to the twenty-four hour bodega a few blocks down and pick up a cake that doesn’t taste good in the slightest but they pair it with cheap wine and no pants and, fuck, it’s the best cake either of them have had in years.)

**Author's Note:**

> the next thing i write will.....be angst. prepare yourself.


End file.
